


Beaux Yeux

by Cicerothewriter



Category: Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: Episode Related, Established Relationship, M/M, Slash, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-04
Updated: 2011-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-22 05:15:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cicerothewriter/pseuds/Cicerothewriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hastings writes about what he left out of the novel, <i>The Big Four</i>.  (Therefore, there are spoilers for the entire novel, including the end.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beaux Yeux

**Author's Note:**

> This is a companion piece to _D'accord_ , and it is probably best if you read that first. Both stories exist in the same universe as my other Poirot stories.
> 
> Note: I wrote this as a response to _The Big Four_ as well as Phantomphan1990's comments about how slashy the book was and especially the phrase _beaux yeux_ which Poirot uses in reference to Hastings' eyes.
> 
> Note 2: I tried to write this in such a way that you could read it without having read the novel, but I'm not sure if I succeeded. I hope you enjoy it anyway.

One of the most dangerous cases in the long career of my friend Hercule Poirot involved a group of four criminal masterminds known as the Big Four. During the course of Poirot's investigation, our lives were endangered many times, and for one terrible month I thought my friend dead. As the events affected us deeply, I decided to write up an account of the investigation, appropriately titled _The Big Four_.

These events were laid out in as truthful a manner as possible without endangering those who remained alive – and without endangering Poirot and myself. The changes were often to the pseudonyms of agents and their descriptions; however, other changes stemmed from the need to protect my private life. To the reading public I had married and emigrated to the Argentine with my wife. In truth, I still maintained a ranch in the Argentine, but my ardent devotion was to that funny little man with an egg-shaped head – Hercule Poirot.

This case still brought about nightmares on occasion, and I would wake in a sweat after imagining my dear friend in his pine coffin. Poirot, too, was affected. Dr. Ridgeway later told me in confidence that Poirot had been distraught by my unconsciousness (because I had been closer to the device when it had gone off in our flat, I suffered a greater blow than Poirot – if I had been in my right mind, I would have realized that it made no sense that Poirot would have been killed while I remained alive). My devastation and fear (and yes, a little anger) had been matched by Poirot's anguish at having to leave me while I was unconscious and frustration at my stubbornness not to depart from England.

On the boat to Argentina, I cried silent tears, wondering what I would do once I disembarked. I certainly would not stay there for long. My memories of Poirot were in London, and if memories were all I was to have for the rest of my life, I would not carelessly abandon them. And there was Ms. Lemon to consider. She had been present during our investigations, but for her safety she was moved to a secret location. Fortunately she was never in the hands of the Big Four, although I had been made to think that during the investigation. Ms. Lemon was not necessarily thrilled to be turned into my wife in the novel, and let me hear about it in no uncertain terms.

As described in _The Big Four_ I was taken suddenly and without explanation from the ship bound for the Argentine and transported to Belgium. From there I was driven to a house just outside of Spa where I discovered Poirot safe and gloriously alive! Poirot's embrace led to more, and I gladly allowed my passions to overwhelm me as we made love there in the middle of the room.

I was angered by his deception and resentful that he had made me go through such pain because he could not trust my acting skills. Just the thought of Poirot's death could have allowed me to put on a decent performance at his funeral and afterward. Poirot, however, was very adept at smoothing down my ruffled feathers, and later I was able to take some amusement from certain moments that occurred while we had been parted, such as when the Countess said that I had "the look of a mule when it puts its ears back and kicks." Poirot tugged playfully at one of my ears, and declared that I did not have the look of a mule right then. I laughed perhaps more than the joke deserved, but after having contemplated such a bleak future for well over a month I thirsted for his company.

At my insistence, Poirot told me some of his plan, including the inclusion of his brother, Achille. Of course I knew that Poirot had no brother; he would have told me before we were married and Achille would have been at the ceremony. I was, however, sympathetic to Poirot's distress when his plan forced him to shave off his moustache. I must admit that he looked like a completely different man.

"Do you approve, Hastings?" he asked, looking at his reflection in a small hand-mirror.

I scrutinized him closely. "I am unsure," I replied, reaching up to touch his face. He took my hand in his and kissed my palm; it was odd not to feel that stiff moustache against my palm. "You are still very handsome, love, but…"

"My face, it lacks symmetry without the moustache." He looked unhappy at this lack of symmetry, but I knew how to distract him.

I kissed him gently, and then brushed my lips against his for a few moments, before pulling back. "I am still unsure, Poirot," I said teasingly. "Perhaps I should continue to attempt an answer."

" _Mais oui_ , Hastings. I think your plan _parfait_." He seized my hands, and led me to our bed.

We spent a lot of time in such pleasant distractions while we waited for the moment to act. The countryside around Spa was pleasant, but there was little to do. Neither of us could venture far from the house because I was supposed to be in Argentina and Poirot dead. Often this lack of movement created a detrimental restlessness. Poirot worried and fretted about the case, and I worried and fretted about Poirot. After one bad nightmare, during which I discovered just how hard Poirot had taken my last injury, Poirot entreated for me to depart to the safety of Argentina, but I would have none of it. I refused to part from his side, and I told him so most vigorously. So vigorously, in fact, that Poirot left to have a sulk. I sat in the garden, and I can assure you that I was not sulking in the least. However, after a few minutes I missed him terribly. Thoughts of that pine box sprang to mind, and I stood up, intending to find Poirot. However, he was just returning to me. I gazed at him, and forgave him immediately; he only wished for me to be safe, but that is what I wished for him.

That night he woke me from my sleep. I felt his heart beating fast under my hand, and I murmured, "Poirot?"

"Please, Hastings, please open those _beaux yeux_ of yours."

His pleading voice roused me to full wakefulness. His expression was a mixture of fear, embarrassment, and need.

"A dream?" I said softly, aware that all was quiet around us. I wished to retain its peaceful qualities, and so I deliberately kept my movements and voice calm.

" _Oui_ , the same as before." This time his head came to rest on my shoulder, and I cuddled him close. I was proud that Poirot trusted me to care for him during these rare moments of vulnerability.

"What do you need, my love?" I asked, stroking his back gently.

"Only you, _mon chou_ ," he replied. His gentle tug on my lapel told me what he wished for.

I kissed and caressed him as I removed his clothes, telling him how much I loved him and how handsome I found him, how I thrilled at the chance to touch him. His moans and soft words of love were my reward for such diligence. I took my time preparing him until his pleas felt physically painful to me, and then I pressed myself forward, joining completely with him.

"Oh, heavens," I murmured, resting where I was, waiting for him to tell me when he was ready. My eyes closed as I held tight to my resolve.

His hand stroked my cheek, and I opened my eyes. His hand in my hair guided me down, and he kissed me with such great passion that I nearly forgot myself.

" _Oui, mon tendre_ Hastings, please keep your _beaux yeux_ open," he murmured, his gaze hot upon mine.

The intimacy of his request was almost unbearable. Each moment of pleasure was displayed in the dark brown depths of his eyes, and no doubt in mine because he watched me with equal fascination. His gratitude was just as disconcerting because I knew that I could be somewhat less demonstrative than he preferred. I wished to give this wonderful man everything because he was alive and he loved me.

I kept my eyes open even as we peaked, which was quite the effort. We lay panting, my body laying half on his.

Finally, he looked at me and smiled. "You may close your eyes now, _mon chou_."

I hummed softly, and fell asleep.

 

By the end of our adventure, I was thoroughly tired of being drugged, tied up, and dragged everywhere. Poirot's plan worked perfectly, and even Poirot admitted that my performance before the Big Four was without par. I exclaimed that it was Achille Poirot, as if I would be foolish enough to give away my dear friend's brother. I had always been jealous of the Countess, and although that jealousy had lessened considerably over the years, I felt a twinge of it when it was obvious that her tender regard for Poirot was what convinced her to help us escape. However, after this moment, we saw no more of the Countess.

Our return home was a sweet relief. Ms Lemon was itching to return to her files and typewriter. The sitting room had been cleaned up and repaired during that terrible month, but Poirot set about arranging it to suit his impeccable standards. Our lives returned to normal except for a new awareness of our mortality. I could not forget what it was like to live without Poirot. Consequently I became less self-conscious of Poirot's physical nature, his touches in public and his praise. Others thought that it was just his Gallic nature, but we both knew otherwise and capitalized on that prejudice. I could not refuse him after so much had happened. I loved him dearly.


End file.
